


next year in jerusalem

by ArielFabulous



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Judaism, Pesach | Passover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArielFabulous/pseuds/ArielFabulous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry goes to a Passover seder. A one-shot based off this tweet: http://media.tumblr.com/7c36c7afc2d51ef951bd9beb7baf2df6/tumblr_inline_mk9g625T0E1qz4rgp.png</p>
            </blockquote>





	next year in jerusalem

**Author's Note:**

> *sigh* this is what has my life become; writing 1D fic about harry styles at a passover seder. WELP ENJOY <3

It was late in the afternoon before the first seder, and I had just gotten home from the synagogue to help my wife prepare for our guests. I’m usually little help in the kitchen at these sort of affairs, my wife taking charge with our daughter Rachel and assorted hired staff, darting around our kitchen, madly preparing an elaborate meal for upwards of thirty people. I had retreated to my study, going over my haggadah, reviewing the prayers to be said, the comments and questions I would make and ask, who I would ask to lead what, etc., when my wife, Lena, peeked her head in, her hand over the speaker of the portable phone. I waved her in, my eyes still on the page of my haggadah.

“Michael wants to bring a friend of a friend to seder this year, some popstar who’s on tour in the area, who for some reason, wants to go to a seder. He says he’s not jewish, but-” I cut her off by flicking my eyes up from the page to her figure standing in the doorway. I replied to her hesitant face with a stern look and intoned “Let all who are hungry come and eat.”

“I know, I know,” her hand up in surrender, “you know i always set extra places for the strays that always end up here, but i just wanted to warn you that some pretty goyim boy is going to be at your seder.” She put her hand back on the phone and chuckled, “His name is Harry Styles…i know, what a name…” she walked away laughing softly to herself down the hall, and my eyes returned to my haggadah. I made a small smile at the thought of a popstar at my seder. I closed the book, and walked downstairs to the increasing volume of my grandchildren running about.

—-

I always knew that my youngest son, Michael, who was many years out of university, still unmarried, and working for a record company, had never been drawn to the jewish faith like his older siblings. However, I never felt that he lacked faith because he always embodied the core beliefs of the jewish faith: generosity. For instance, he always called last minute to say he was bringing guests of all kinds and creeds to seder, and this year was no different.

“Abba,” Michael said, motioning towards a tall boy—no, young man— with dark curly hair in a white button-down, dark slacks and black lace-up boots, “This is Harry Styles. He’s in a group that’s on our label. Harry, this is my father, Rabbi Adam Schulman.” I shook his hand. “A pleasure to have you at our seder, Harry.” I smiled at him, and the smile he returned was wide and genuine. I could see why he was a popstar, with a face like that, though I couldn’t help noticing a certain amount of nervousness in his shoulders and presence. “Pleasure’s all mine,” he rumbled slowly, “thank you so much for having me, and at such short notice! I nearly forgot about it this year!” He put his hand through his hair nervously, and I laughed. “I always nearly forget about at least one holiday a year, but as long as you remember, its never too late.” He smiled back, a little more at ease.

I turned to Michael, “Your mother said he is a friend of a friend…?”Michael looked away for a moment, then said, a little hesitantly, “Er, yeah, actually, he’s a friend of Nick’s…” Ah, Nick, that obnoxious radio host he brought to seder a few years back. Meant well, but quite a gob on him. Kept playing with his phone. “Ah well,” I said lightly to Harry, “as long as you keep your phone away during the brachot, you won’t incur my wrath as he did.” Seeing the line of worry in his forehead in response, I laughed again. “My wrath being a stern look from across the room, don’t worry, enjoy yourself! Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Becker…” I was drawn away to greet other guests, but I couldn’t shake the thought of Harry’s face from my mind. He looked so tired behind the eyes…

—-

The seder went on as it usually did. Harry sat at the kid’s table between Michael and my Granddaughter Emily. From what I glimpsed, he had fun feeding her bits of the special shmorreh matzah and pulling faces at her, which at her two years was all that was required for her squeals of glee and affection. He even helped my grandson Eric sing the Ma’nish’tanah, who at age six was rather shy and didn’t want to do it by himself. He had a lovely low baritone which sounded endearing alongside the high pitched squeak of a six-year-old. The fact that he knew the prayer made me smile. It wasn’t this boy’s first seder after all….

—-

During the tail end of the meal, I saw Harry leave the room in a huff, his phone in his hand. I carried on with my conversation, but when he didn’t return for a good ten minutes, I decided that I should probably get up and stretch my legs a bit, and see where he’d gone off to. I found him sitting on a bench in our foyer, on his phone.

“…This is important to me, and—and I’d rather go to clubs with the lads than some model you throw at me, I—-I didn’t mean it like that, but you know what I mean, I just…..look, I know I have to at some point but I can’t tonight, it’s pesach….yeah….okay…. fine….Bye.”

He hung up, and stared at his phone for a second before he looked up and saw me in the doorway, his face changing from stony defiance to panic instantly. I put up my hand to his apologies about using his phone and simply said “I trust that it was important.” He laughed softly. “No,” he admitted, “It really wasn’t.” A line of worry was creased in his forehead. I could see the darkness behind his eyes returning.

“Rabbi Schulman,” he implored with questioning eyes, “can I ask you something? Like, in confidence?” I nodded, and sat down next to him on the bench. He began, nervous at first, “I was listening to what you were saying during the service, about how every year at passover, we each make the journey from being slaves to being free. Like… ‘Next year may we be in Jerusalem. Next year may we be truly free’… “He talked to his hands, long fingers knotted together in thought. He went on, “And you also said that Pesach is a time every year not just to think about how we are free, but also to think about the ways that we are enslaved in our own lives. And—and while I love my life, and never forget for a second how lucky I really am, that I get to do what I love with my best mates every day… theres a part of me that feels…kind of…trapped.” He looked at me then, for a moment, with his green eyes wide, then quickly looked back to his hands, and continued, “Sometimes I feel like my life isn’t my own, that I’m constantly told where to go, what to do, what not to do, how to act, who to love, and sometimes it feels like I’m a slave, like I’m in a prison of my own making, cause I do want this, but just not like this—” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb and sighed. I saw him then as he really was: exhausted, pretending that everything was alright, and stretched thin from the effort. A boy in a young man’s body, forced to grow up a bit too fast. I sighed, put my hand on his back in a comforting gesture, and gave the advice I have given many times to those who feel they are caught in nets of their own making.

“Harry,” I began, “The good things in life should not affect the bad. That is to say, cherish the good parts of your life, and don’t focus on the bad parts or the forces you cannot control, for that only leads to despair.” He listened and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Like…” he started, “The taste of chocolate does not affect the taste of broccoli?” I chuckled in reply, “Yes, like that. Be grateful for the good things, because there will always be bad things, but the bad is made bearable by the presence of good.” He nodded, the words sinking in, and the darkness behind his eyes began to lessen a bit. He stood up and reached out his hand “Thanks Rabbi Schulman, I—-I think I needed that.” I shook his hand, and he smiled at me, still that popstar smile, but still just as genuine. I couldn’t help thinking that he looked better without that line of worry in his forehead. “It was nothing.” I smiled back, “Go back to the seder, I think dessert is coming out soon” I winked, and we laughed as we walked back to the living room, his long skinny legs taking long strides back to his seat, a little lighter and less tired than before.


End file.
